Confessions and Criticisms by Julian Hawthorne

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bring them about; they cease when that effort is discontinued; they aboundin indications of being produced by independent intelligencies; they areinexplicable upon any recognized theory of physics; and, therefore, thereis nothing for it but to regard them as spiritual. And what then? Then, ofcourse, there must be spirits, and a life after the death of the body; andthe great question of Immortality is answered in the affirmative!

Let us, for the sake of argument, concede that the manifestations uponwhich the Spiritists found their claims are genuine: that they are or canbe produced without fraud; and let us then enquire in what respect ourmeans for the conversion of the sceptic are improved. In the first placewe find that all the manifestations--be their cause what it may--can occuronly on the physical plane. However much the origin of the phenomena mayperplex us, the phenomena themselves must be purely material, in so far asthey are perceptible at all. "Raps" are audible according to the same lawsof vibration as other sounds: the tilting table is simply a material bodydisplaced by an adequate agency; the materialized hand or face is nothingbut physical substance assuming form. Plainly, therefore, we have as muchright to ascribe a spiritual source to such phenomena as we have toascribe a spiritual source to the ordinary phenomena of nature, such as atree or a man's body,--just as much right--and no more! Consequently, weare no nearer converting our sceptic than we were at the outset. He admitsthe physical manifestation: there is no intrinsic novelty about that: butwhen we proceed to argue that the manifestations are wrought by spirits,he points out to us that this is sheer assumption on our part. "I have notseen a spirit," he says: "I have not heard one; I have not felt one; noris it possible that my bodily senses should perceive anything that is notat least as physical as they are. I have witnessed certain transactionseffected by means unknown to me--possibly by the action of a natural lawnot yet fully expounded by science. If there was anything spiritual in theaffair, it has not been manifest to my apprehension: and I must decline tolend my countenance to any such pretensions."

That would be the reply of the sceptic who was equal to the emergency. Butlet us suppose that he is not equal to it: that he is a weak-kneed,impressionable person, with a tendency to jump at conclusions; and that heis scared or mystified into believing that "spirits" may be at the bottomof it. What, then, will be the character of the faith which the PositiveRevelation has furnished him? He has discovered that existence continues,in some fashion, after the death of the body. He has learned that theremay be such a thing as--not immortality exactly, but--postmortemconsciousness. He has been saddled with the conviction that the otherworld is full of restless ghosts, who come shuddering back from their coldemptiness, and try to warm themselves in the borrowed flesh and blood, andwith the purblind selfishness and curiosity of us who still remain here."Have faith: be not impatient: the conditions are unfavorable: but we areworking for you!"--such is the constant burden of the communications. But,if there be a God, why must our relations with him be complicated by theinterference of such forlorn prevaricators and amateur Paracletes asthese? we do not wish to be "worked for,"--to be carried heavenward onsome one else's shoulders: but to climb thither by God's help and our ownwill, or to stay where we are. Moreover, by what touchstone shall we testthe veracity of the self-appointed purveyors of this Positive Revelation?Are we to believe what they say, because they have lost their bodies? Iflife teaches us anything, it is that God does above all things respect thespiritual freedom of his creatures. He does not terrify and bully us intoacknowledging Him by ghostly juggleries in darkened rooms, and by vapidexhibitions addressed to our outward senses. He approaches each man in theinnermost sacred audience-chamber of his heart, and there shows him goodand evil, truth and falsehood, and bids him choose. And that choice, ifmade aright, becomes a genuine and undying belief, because it was made infreedom, unbiassed by external threats and cajoleries.

Such belief is, itself, immortality,--something as distinct from post-mortem consciousness as wisdom is distinct from mere animal intelligence.On the whole, therefore, there seems to be little real worth in Spiritism,even accepting it at its own valuation. The nourishment it yields the soulis too meagre; and--save on that one bare point of life beyond the grave,which might just as easily prove an infinite curse as an infiniteblessing--it affords no trustworthy news whatever.

But these objections do not apply to magic proper. Magic seems to consistmainly in the control which mind may exceptionally exercise over matter.In hypnotism, the subject abjectly believes and obeys the operator. If hebe told that he cannot step across a chalk mark on the floor, he cannotstep across it. He dissolves in tears or explodes with laughter, accordingas the operator tells him he has cause for merriment or tears: and if hebe assured that the water he drinks is Madeira wine or Java coffee, he hasno misgiving that such is not the case.

To say that this state of things is brought about by the exercise of theoperator's will, is not to explain the phenomenon, but to put it indifferent terms. What is the will, and how does it produce such a result?Here is a man who believes, at the word of command, that the thing whichall the rest of the world calls a chair is a horse. How is suchmisapprehension on his part possible? our senses are our sole means ofknowing external objects: and this man's senses seem to confirm--at leastthey by no means correct--his persuasion that a given object is somethingvery different. Could we solve this puzzle, we should have done somethingtowards gaining an insight into the philosophy of magic.

We observe, in the first place, that the _rationale_ of hypnotism, and oftrance in general, is distinct from that of memory and of imagination, andeven from that of dreams. It resembles these only in so far as it involvesa quasi-perception of something not actually present or existent. Butmemory and imagination never mislead us into mistaking their suggestionsfor realities: while in dreams, the dreamer's fancy alone is active; thebodily faculties are not in action. In trance, however, the subject mayappear to be, to all intents and purposes, awake. Yet this state, unlikethe others, is abnormal. The brain seems to be in a passive, or, at anyrate, in a detached condition; it cannot carry out or originate ideas, norcan it examine an idea as to its truth or falsehood. Furthermore, itcannot receive or interpret the reports of its own bodily senses. Inshort, its relations with the external world are suspended: and since thebody is a part of the external world, the brain can no longer control thebody's movements.

Bodily movements are, however, to some extent, automatic. Given a certainstimulus in the brain or nerve-centres, and certain corresponding muscularcontractions follow: and this whether or not the stimulus be applied in anormal manner. Although, therefore, the entranced brain cannotspontaneously control the body, yet if we can apply an independentstimulus to it, the body will make a fitting and apparently intelligentresponse. The reader has doubtless seen those ingenious pieces ofmechanism which are set in motion by dropping into an orifice a coin orpellet. Now, could we drop into the passive brain of an entranced personthe idea that a chair is a horse, for instance,--the person would giveevery sensible indication of having adopted that figment as a fact.

But how (since he can no longer communicate with the world by means of hissenses) is this idea to be insinuated? The man is magnetized--that is tosay, insulated; how can we have intercourse with him?

Experiments show that this can be effected only through the magnetizer.Asleep towards the rest of the world, towards him the entranced person isawake. Not awake, however, as to the bodily senses; neither the magnetizernor any one else can approach by that route. It is true that, if themagnetizer speaks to him, he knows what is said: but he does not hearphysically; because he perceives the unspoken thought just as readily. Butsince whatever does not belong to his body must belong to his soul (ormind, if that term be preferable), it follows that the magnetizer mustcommunicate with the magnetized on the mental or spiritual plane; that is,immediately, or without the intervention of the body.

Let us review the position we have reached:--We have an entranced ormagnetized person,--a person whose mind, or spirit, has, by a certainprocess, been so far withdrawn from conscious communion with his ownbodily senses as to disable him from receiving through them any tidingsfrom the external world. He is not, however, wholly withdrawn from hisbody, for, in that case, the body would be dead; whereas, in fact, itsorganic or animal life continues almost unimpaired. He is thereforeneither out of the body nor in it, but in an anomalous region midwaybetween the two,--a state in which he can receive no sensuous impressionsfrom the physical world, nor be put in conscious communication with thespiritual world through any channel--save one.

This one exception is, as we have seen, the person who magnetized him. Themagnetizer is, then, the one and only medium through which the personmagnetized can obtain impressions: and these impressions are conveyeddirectly from the mind, or spirit, of the magnetizer to that of themagnetized. Let us note, further, that the former is not, like the latter,in a semi-disembodied state, but is in the normal exercise of his bodilyfunctions and faculties. He possesses, consequently, his normal ability tooriginate ideas and to impart them: and whatever ideas he chooses toimpart to the magnetized person, the latter is fain passively andimplicitly to accept. And having so received them, they descend naturallyinto the automatic mechanism of the body, and are by it mechanicallyinterpreted or enacted.

So far, the theory is good: but something seems amiss in the working. Wefind that a certain process frequently issues in a certain effect: but wedo not yet know why this should be the case. Some fundamental link iswanting; and this link is manifestly a knowledge of the true relationsbetween mind and matter: of the laws to which the mental or spiritualworld is subject: of what nature itself is: and of what Creation means.Let us cast a glance at these fundamental subjects; for they are the keywithout which the secrets of magic must remain locked and hidden.

In common speech we call the realm of the material universe, Creation; butphilosophy denies its claim to that title. Man alone is Creation:everything else is appearance. The universe appears, because man exists:he implies the universe, but is not implied by it. We may assist ourmetaphysics, here, by a physical illustration. Take a glass prism and holdin the sunlight before a white surface. Let the prism represent man: thesun, man's Creator: and the seven-hued ray cast by the prism, nature, orthe material universe. Now, if we remove the light, the ray vanishes: itvanishes, also, if we take away the prism: but so long as the sun and theprism--God and man--remain in their mutual relation, so long must therainbow nature appear. Nature, in short, is not God; neither is it man;but it is the inevitable concomitant or expression of the creativeattitude of God towards man. It is the shadow of the elements of whichhumanity or human nature is composed: or, shall we say, it is theapparition in sense of the spiritual being of mankind,--not, be itobserved, of the being of any individual or of any aggregation ofindividuals; but of humanity as a whole. For this reason, also, is natureorderly, complete, and permanent,--that it is conditioned not upon ourfrail and faulty personalities, but upon our impersonal, universal humannature, in which is transacted the miracle of God's incarnation, andthrough which He forever shines.

Besides Creator and creature, nothing else can be; and whatever else seemsto be, must be only a seeming. Nature, therefore, is the shadow of ashade, but it serves an indispensable use. For since there can be nodirect communication between finite and Infinite--God and man--a medium orcommon ground is needed, where they may meet; and nature, the shadow whichthe Infinite causes the finite to project, is just that medium. Man,looking upon this shadow, mistakes it for real substance, serving him forfoothold and background, and assisting him to attain self-consciousness.God, on the other hand, finds in nature the means of revealing Himself toHis creature without compromising the creature's freedom. Man supposes theuniverse to be a physical structure made by God in space and time, and insome region of which He resides, at a safe distance from us His creatures:whereas, in truth, God is distant from us only so far as we removeourselves from our own inmost intuitions of truth and good.

But what is that substance or quality which underlies and giveshomogeneity to the varying forms of nature, so that they seem to us to owna common origin?--what is that logical abstraction upon which we havebestowed the name of matter? scientific analysis finds matter only asforms, never as itself: until, in despair, it invents an atomic theory,and lets it go at that. But if, discarding the scientific method, wequestion matter from the philosophical standpoint, we shall find it lessobdurate.

Man, considered as a mind or spirit, consists of volition andintelligence; or, what is the same, of emotion or affection, and of thethoughts which are created by this affection. Nothing can be affirmed ofman as a spirit which does not fall under one or other of these two parts.Now, a creature consisting solely of affections and thoughts must, ofcourse, have something to love and to think about. Man's final destiny isno doubt to love and consider his Creator; but that can only be after areactionary or regenerative process has begun in him. Meanwhile, he mustlove and consider the only other available object--that is, himself.Manifestly, however, in order to bestow this attention upon himself, hemust first be made aware of his own existence. In order to effect this,something must be added to man as spirit, enabling him to discriminatebetween the subject thinking and loving, and the object loved and thoughtof. This additional something, again, in order to fulfill its purpose,must be so devised as not to appear an addition: it must seem even moretruly the man than the man himself. It must, therefore, perfectlyrepresent or correspond to the spiritual form and constitution; so thatthe thoughts and affections of the spirit may enter into it as into theirnatural home and continent.

This continent or vehicle of the mind is the human body. The body has twoaspects,--substance and form, answering to the two aspects of the mind,--affection and thought: and affection finds its incarnation orcorrespondence in substance; and thought, in form. The mind, in short,realizes itself in terms of its reflection in the body, much as the bodyrealizes itself in terms of its reflection in the looking-glass: but itdoes more than this, for it identifies itself with this its image. And howis this identification made possible?

It is brought about by the deception of sense, which is the medium ofcommunication between the spiritual and the material man. Until thismiraculous medium is put in action, there can be no conscious relationbetween these two planes, admirably as they are adapted to each other.Sense is spiritual on one side and material on the other: but it is onlyon the material side that it gathers its reports: on the spiritual side itonly delivers them. Every one of the five messengers whereby we areapprised of external existence brings us an earthly message only. Andsince these messengers act spontaneously, and since the mind's only othersource of knowledge is intuition, which cannot be sensuously confirmed,--it is little wonder if man has inclined to the persuasion that what ishighest in him is but an attribute of what is lowest, and that when thebody dies, the soul must follow it into nothingness.

Creative energy, being infinite, passes through the world of causes to theworld of effects--through the spiritual to the physical plane. Matter istherefore the symbol of the ultimate of creative activity; it is thenegative of God. As God is infinite, matter is finite; as He is life, itis death; as He is real, it is unreal; as He reveals, matter veils. And asthe relation of God to man's spirit is constant and eternal, so is thephysical quality of matter fixed and permanent. Now, in order to arrive ata comprehension of what matter is in itself, let us descend from thegeneral to the specific, and investigate the philosophical elements of apebble, for instance. A pebble is two things: it is a mineral: and it is aparticular concrete example of mineral. In its mineral aspect, it is outof space and time, and is--not a fact, but--a truth; a perception of themind. In so far as it is mineral, therefore, it has no relation to sense,but only to thought: and on the other hand, in so far as it is aparticular concrete pebble, it is cognizable by sense but not by thought;for what is in sense is out of thought: the one supersedes the other. Butif sense thus absorbs matter, so as to be philosophicallyindistinguishable from it, we are constrained to identify matter with oursensuous perception of it: and if our exemplary pebble had nothing but itsmaterial quality to depend upon, it would cease to exist not only tothought, but to sense likewise. Its metaphysical aspect, in short, is theonly reality appertaining to it. Matter, then, may be defined as theimpact upon sense of that prismatic ray which we have called nature.

To apply this discussion to the subject in hand: Magic is a sort of parodyof reality. And when we recognize that Creation proceeds from withinoutwards, or endogenously; and that matter is not the objective but thesubjective side of the universe, we are in a position to perceive that inorder magically to control matter, we must apply our efforts not to matteritself, but to our own minds. The natural world affects us from withoutinwards: the magical world affects us from within outwards: instead ofobjects suggesting ideas, ideas are made to suggest objects. And as, inthe former case, when the object is removed the idea vanishes; so in thelatter case, when the idea is removed, the object vanishes. Both objectsare illusions; but the illusion in the first instance is the normalillusion of sense, whereas in the second instance it is the abnormalillusion of mind.

The above argument can at best serve only as a hint to such as inclineseriously to investigate the subject, and perhaps as a touchstone fortesting the validity of a large and noisy mass of pretensions which engagethe student at the outset of his enquiry. Many of these pretensions arethe result of ignorance; many of deliberate intent to deceive; some,again, of erroneous philosophical theories. The Tibetan adepts seem tobelong either to the second or to the last of these categories,--or,perhaps, to an impartial mingling of all three. They import a cumbrousmachinery of auras, astral bodies, and elemental spirits; they divide maninto seven principles, nature into seven kingdoms; they regard spirit as arefined form of matter, and matter as the one absolute fact of theuniverse,--the alpha and omega of all things. They deny a supreme Deity,but hold out hopes of a practical deityship for the majority of the humanrace. In short, their philosophy appeals to the most evil instincts of thesoul, and has the air of being ex-post-facto; whenever they run foul of aprodigy, they invent arbitrarily a fanciful explanation of it. But it willbe found, I think, that the various phases of hypnotism, and asystematized use of spiritism, will amply account for every miracle theyactually bring to pass.

Upon the whole, a certain vulgarity is inseparable from even the mostrespectable forms of magic,--an atmosphere of tinsel, of ostentation, ofbig cry and little wool. A child might have told us that matter is notalmighty, that minds are sometimes transparent to one another, that loveand faith can work wonders. And we also know that, in this mortal life,our means are exquisitely adapted to our ends; and that we can gain nosolid comfort or advantage by striving to elbow our way a few inchesfurther into the region of the occult and abnormal. Magic, howeverspecious its achievements, is only a mockery of the Creative power, andexposes its unlikeness to it. "It is the attribute of natural existence,"a profound writer has said, "to be a form of use to something higher thanitself, so that whatever does not, either potentially or actually, possesswithin it this soul of use, does not honestly belong to nature, but is asensational effect produced upon the individual intelligence." [Footnote:Henry James, in "Society the Redeemed Form of Man."]

No one can overstep the order and modesty of general existence withoutbringing himself into perilous proximity to subjects more profound andsacred than the occasion warrants. Life need not be barren of mystery andmiracle to any one of us; but they shall be such tender mysteries andinstructive miracles as the devotion of motherhood, and the blooming ofspring. We are too close to Infinite love and wisdom to play pranks beforeit, and provoke comparison between our paltry juggleries and itsomnipotence and majesty.

CHAPTER XI.

AMERICAN WILD ANIMALS IN ART.

The hunter and the sportsman are two very different persons. The hunterpursues animals because he loves them and sympathizes with them, and killsthem as the champions of chivalry used to slay one another--courteously,fairly, and with admiration and respect. To stalk and shoot the elk andthe grizzly bear is to him what wooing and winning a beloved maiden wouldbe to another man. Far from being the foe or exterminator of the game hefollows, he, more than any one else, is their friend, vindicator, andconfidant. A strange mutual ardor and understanding unites him with hisquarry. He loves the mountain sheep and the antelope, because they canescape him; the panther and the bear, because they can destroy him. Hisrelations with them are clean, generous, and manly. And on the other hand,the wild animals whose wildness can never be tamed, whose inmost principleof existence it is to be apart and unapproachable,--those creatures whomay be said to cease to be when they cease to be intractable,--seem, afterthey have eluded their pursuer to the utmost, or fought him to the death,to yield themselves to him with a sort of wild contentment--as if theywere glad to admit the sovereignty of man, though death come with theadmission. The hunter, in short, asks for his happiness only to be alonewith what he hunts; the sportsman, after his day's sport, must needshasten home to publish the size of the "bag," and to wring from hisfellow-men the glory and applause which he has not the strength andsimplicity to find in the game itself.

But if the true hunter is rare, the union of the hunter and the artist israrer still. It demands not only the close familiarity, the lovingobservation, and the sympathy, but also the faculty of creation--the eyewhich selects what is constructive and beautiful, and passes over what issuperfluous and inharmonious, and the hand skilful to carry out what theimagination conceives. In the man whose work I am about to consider, thesequalities are developed in a remarkable degree, though it was not until hewas a man grown, and had fought with distinction through the civil war,that he himself became aware of the artistic power that was in him. Theevents of his life, could they be rehearsed here, would form a tale ofadventure and vicissitude more varied and stirring than is often found infiction. He has spent by himself days and weeks in the vast solitudes ofour western prairies and southern morasses. He has been the companion oftrappers and frontiersmen, the friend and comrade of Indians, sleepingside by side with them in their wigwams, running the rapids in theircanoes, and riding with them in the hunt. He has met and overcome thepanther and the grizzly single-handed, and has pursued the flying cimmaronto the snowy summits of the Rocky Mountains, and brought back its crescenthorns as a trophy. He has fought and slain the gray wolf with no otherweapons than his hands and teeth; and at night he has lain concealed bylonely tarns, where the wild coyote came to patter and bark and howl atthe midnight moon. His name and achievements are familiar to the dwellersin those savage regions, whose estimate of a man is based, not upon hissocial and financial advantages, but upon what he is and can do. Yet he isnot one who wears his merit outwardly. His appearance, indeed, isstriking; tall and athletic, broad-shouldered and stout-limbed, with thelong, elastic step of the moccasined Indian, and something of the Indian'sreticence and simplicity. But he can with difficulty be brought to alludeto his adventures, and is reserved almost to the point of ingenuity on allthat concerns himself or redounds to his credit. It is only in familiarconverse with friends that the humor, the cultivation, the knowledge, andthe social charm of the man appear, and his marvellous gift of vivid andpicturesque narration discloses itself. But, in addition to all this, orabove it all, he is the only great animal sculptor of his time, thesuccessor of the French Barye, and (as any one may satisfy himself whowill take the trouble to compare their works) the equal of that famousartist in scope and treatment of animal subjects, and his superior inknowledge and in truth and power of conception. It would be a poorcompliment to call Edward Kemeys the American Barye; but Barye is the onlyman whose animal sculptures can bear comparison with Mr. Kemeys's.

Of Mr. Kemeys's productions, a few are to be seen at his studio, 133 WestFifty-third Street, New York city. These are the models, in clay orplaster, as they came fresh from the artist's hand. From this conditionthey can either be enlarged to life or colossal size, for parks or publicbuildings, or cast in bronze in their present dimensions for theenrichment of private houses. Though this collection includes scarce atithe of what the artist has produced, it forms a series of groups andfigures which, for truth to nature, artistic excellence, and originality,are actually unique. So unique are they, indeed, that the uneducated eyedoes not at first realize their really immense value. Nothing like thislittle sculpture gallery has been seen before, and it is very improbablethat there will ever again be a meeting of conditions and qualitiesadequate to reproducing such an exhibition. For we see here not merely,nor chiefly, the accurate representation of the animal's external aspect,but--what is vastly more difficult to seize and portray--the essentialanimal character or temperament which controls and actuates the animal'smovements and behavior. Each one of Mr. Kemeys's figures gives not onlythe form and proportions of the animal, according to the nicest anatomicalstudies and measurements, but it is the speaking embodiment of profoundinsight into that animal's nature and knowledge of its habits. Thespectator cannot long examine it without feeling that he has learned muchmore of its characteristics and genius than if he had been standing infront of the same animal's cage at the Zoological Gardens; for here is anartist who understands how to translate pose into meaning, and action intoutterance, and to select those poses and actions which convey the broadestand most comprehensive idea of the subject's prevailing traits. He notonly knows what posture or movement the anatomical structure of the animalrenders possible, but he knows precisely in what degree such posture ormovement is modified by the animal's physical needs and instincts. Inother words, he always respects the modesty of nature, and never yields tothe temptation to be dramatic and impressive at the expense of truth. Hereis none of Barye's exaggeration, or of Landseer's sentimental effort tohumanize animal nature. Mr. Kemeys has rightly perceived that animalnature is not a mere contraction of human nature; but that each animal, sofar as it owns any relation to man at all, represents the unimpededdevelopment of some particular element of man's nature. Accordingly,animals must be studied and portrayed solely upon their own basis andwithin their own limits; and he who approaches them with thisunderstanding will find, possibly to his surprise, that the theatre thusafforded is wide and varied enough for the exercise of his best ingenuityand capacities. At first, no doubt, the simple animal appears too simpleto be made artistically interesting, apart from this or that conventionalor imaginative addition. The lion must be presented, not as he is, but asvulgar anticipation expects him to be; not with the savageness and terrorwhich are native to him, but with the savageness and terror which thosewho have trembled and fled at the echo of his roar invest him with,--whichare quite another matter. Zoological gardens and museums have their uses,but they cannot introduce us to wild animals as they really are; and thereports of those who have caught terrified or ignorant glimpses of them intheir native regions will mislead us no less in another direction. Naturereveals her secrets only to those who have faithfully and rigorouslysubmitted to the initiation; but to them she shows herself marvellous andinexhaustible. The "simple animal" avouches his ability to transcend anyimaginative conception of him. The stern economy of his structure andcharacter, the sureness and sufficiency of his every manifestation, theinstinct and capacity which inform all his proceedings,--these are thingswhich are concealed from a hasty glance by the very perfection of theirstate. Once seen and comprehended, however, they work upon the mind of theobserver with an ever increasing power; they lead him into a new, strange,and fascinating world, and generously recompense him for any effort he mayhave made to penetrate thither. Of that strange and fascinating world Mr.Kemeys is the true and worthy interpreter, and, so far as appears, theonly one. Through difficulty and discouragement of all kinds, he has keptto the simple truth, and the truth has rewarded him. He has done a serviceof incalculable value to his country, not only in vindicating Americanart, but in preserving to us, in a permanent and beautiful form, the vividand veracious figures of a wild fauna which, in the inevitable progress ofcolonization and civilization, is destined within a few years to vanishaltogether. The American bear and bison, the cimmaron and the elk, thewolf and the 'coon--where will they be a generation hence? Nowhere, savein the possession of those persons who have to-day the opportunity and theintelligence to decorate their rooms and parks with Mr. Kemeys'sinimitable bronzes. The opportunity is great--much greater, I shouldthink, than the intelligence necessary for availing ourselves of it; andit is a unique opportunity. In other words, it lies within the power ofevery cultivated family in the United States to enrich itself with a workof art which is entirely American; which, as art, fulfils everyrequirement; which is of permanent and increasing interest and value froman ornamental point of view; and which is embodied in the most enduring ofartistic materials.

The studio in which Mr. Kemeys works--a spacious apartment--is, inappearance, a cross between a barn-loft and a wigwam. Round the walls aresuspended the hides, the heads, and the horns of the animals which thehunter has shot; and below are groups, single figures, and busts, modelledby the artist, in plaster, terracotta, or clay. The colossal design of the"Still Hunt"--an American panther crouching before its spring--wasmodelled here, before being cast in bronze and removed to its present sitein Central Park. It is a monument of which New York and America may beproud; for no such powerful and veracious conception of a wild animal hasever before found artistic embodiment. The great cat crouches with headlow, extended throat, and ears erect. The shoulders are drawn far back,the fore paws huddled beneath the jaws. The long, lithe back rises in anarch in the middle, sinking thence to the haunches, while the angry tailmakes a strong curve along the ground to the right. The whole figure istense and compact with restrained and waiting power; the expression isstealthy, pitiless, and terrible; it at once fascinates and astounds thebeholder. While Mr. Kemeys was modelling this animal, an incident occurredwhich he has told me in something like the following words. The artistdoes not encourage the intrusion of idle persons while he is at work,though no one welcomes intelligent inspection and criticism more cordiallythan he. On this occasion he was alone in the studio with his Irishfactotum, Tom, and the outer door, owing to the heat of the weather, hadbeen left ajar. All of a sudden the artist was aware of the presence of astranger in the room. "He was a tall, hulking fellow, shabbily dressed,like a tramp, and looked as if he might make trouble if he had a mind to.However, he stood quite still in front of the statue, staring at it, andnot saying anything. So I let him alone for a while; I thought it would betime enough to attend to him when he began to beg or make a row. But aftersome time, as he still hadn't stirred, Tom came to the conclusion that ahint had better be given him to move on; so he took a broom and begansweeping the floor, and the dust went all over the fellow; but he didn'tpay the least attention. I began to think there would probably be a fight;but I thought I'd wait a little longer before doing anything. At last Isaid to him, 'Will you move aside, please? You're in my way.' He steppedover a little to the right, but still didn't open his mouth, and kept hiseyes fixed on the panther. Presently I said to Tom, 'Well, Tom, the cheekof some people passes belief!' Tom replied with more clouds of dust; butthe stranger never made a sign. At last I got tired, so I stepped up tothe fellow and said to him: 'Look here, my friend, when I asked you tomove aside, I meant you should move the other side of the door.' He rousedup then, and gave himself a shake, and took a last look at the panther,and said he, 'That's all right, boss; I know all about the door; but--whata spring she's going to make!' Then," added Kemeys, self-reproachfully, "Icould have wept!"

But although this superb figure no longer dominates the studio, there isno lack of models as valuable and as interesting, though not of heroicsize. Most interesting of all to the general observer are, perhaps, thetwo figures of the grizzly bear. These were designed from a grizzly whichMr. Kemeys fought and killed in the autumn of 1881 in the Rocky Mountains,and the mounted head of which grins upon the wall overhead, a grislytrophy indeed. The impression of enormous strength, massive yet elastic,ponderous yet alert, impregnable for defence as irresistible in attack; astrength which knows no obstacles, and which never meets its match,--thisimpression is as fully conveyed in these figures, which are not over afoot in height, as if the animal were before us in its natural size. Yousee the vast limbs, crooked with power, bound about with huge ropes andplates of muscle, and clothed in shaggy depths of fur; the vast breadth ofthe head, with its thick, low ears, dull, small eyes, and long up-curvingsnout; the roll and lunge of the gait, like the motion of a vesselplunging forward before the wind; the rounded immensity of the trunk, andthe huge bluntness of the posteriors; and all these features are combinedwith such masterly unity of conception and plastic vigor, that thediminutive model insensibly grows mighty beneath your gaze, until yourealize the monster as if he stood stupendous and grim before you. In thefirst of the figures the bear has paused in his great stride to paw overand snuff at the horned head of a mountain sheep, half buried in the soil.The action of the right arm and shoulder, and the burly slouch of thearrested stride, are of themselves worth a gallery of pseudo-classicVenuses and Roman senators. The other bear is lolling back on hishaunches, with all four paws in the air, munching some grapes from a vinewhich he has torn from its support. The contrast between the savagecharacter of the beast and his absurdly peaceful employment gives a touchof terrific comedy to this design. After studying these figures, onecannot help thinking what a noble embellishment either of them would be,put in bronze, of colossal size, in the public grounds of one of our greatWestern cities. And inasmuch as the rich citizens of the West not onlyknow what a grizzly bear is, but are more fearless and independent, andtherefore often more correct in their artistic opinion than the somewhatsophisticated critics of the East, there is some cause for hoping thatthis thing may be brought to pass.

Beside the grizzly stands the mountain sheep, or cimmaron, the mostdifficult to capture of all four-footed animals, whose gigantic curvedhorns are the best trophy of skill and enterprise that a hunter can bringhome with him. The sculptor has here caught him in one of his mostcharacteristic attitudes--just alighted from some dizzy leap on theheadlong slope of a rocky mountainside. On such a spot nothing but thecimmaron could retain its footing; yet there he stands, firm and secure asthe rock itself, his fore feet planted close together, the fore legs rigidand straight as the shaft of a lance, while the hind legs pose easily inattendance upon them. "The cimmaron always strikes plumb-centre, and henever makes a mistake," is Mr. Kemeys's laconic comment; and we canrecognize the truth of the observation in this image. Perfectly at homeand comfortable on its almost impossible perch, the cimmaron curves itsgreat neck and turns its head upward, gazing aloft toward the heightwhence it has descended. "It's the golden eagle he hears," says thesculptor; "they give him warning of danger." It is a magnificent animal, amodel of tireless vigor in all its parts; a creature made to hurl itselfhead-foremost down appalling gulfs of space, and poise itself at thebottom as jauntily as if gravitation were but a bugbear of timidimaginations. I find myself unconsciously speaking about these plastermodels as if they were the living animals which they represent; but themore one studies Mr. Kemeys's works, the more instinct with redundant andbreathing life do they appear.

It would be impossible even to catalogue the contents of this studio, thegreater part of which is as well worth describing as those examples whichhave already been touched upon; nor could a more graphic pen than mineconvey an adequate impression of their excellence. But there is here afigure of the 'coon, which, as it is the only one ever modelled, ought notto be passed over in silence. In appearance this animal is a curiousmedley of the fox, the wolf, and the bear, besides I-know-not-what (as thelady in "Punch" would say) that belongs to none of those beasts. As may beimagined, therefore, its right portrayal involves peculiar difficulties,and Mr. Kemeys's genius is nowhere better shown than in the manner inwhich these have been surmounted. Compact, plump, and active in figure,quick and subtle in its movements, the 'coon crouches in a flattenedposition along the limb of a tree, its broad, shallow head and pointedsnout a little lifted, as it gazes alertly outward and downward. Itsustains itself by the clutch of its slender-clawed toes on the branch,the fore legs being spread apart, while the left hind leg is withdrawninward, and enters smoothly into the contour of the furred side; thebushy, fox-like tail, ringed with dark and light bands, curving to theleft. Thus posed and modelled in high relief on a tile-shaped plaque, Mr.Kemeys's coon forms a most desirable ornament for some wise man'ssideboard or mantle-piece, where it may one day be pointed out as the onlysurviving representative of its species.

The two most elaborate groups here have already attained some measure ofpublicity; the "Bison and Wolves" having been exhibited in the Paris Salonin 1878, and the "Deer and Panther" having been purchased in bronze by Mr.Winans during the sculptor's sojourn in England. Each group represents oneof those deadly combats between wild beasts which are among the mostterrific and at the same time most natural incidents of animal existence;and they are of especial interest as showing the artist's power ofconcentrated and graphic composition. A complicated story is told in boththese instances with a masterly economy of material and balance ofproportion; so that the spectator's eye takes in the whole subject at aglance, and yet finds inexhaustible interest in the examination ofdetails, all of which contribute to the central effect without distractingthe attention. A companion piece to the "Deer and Panther" shows the sameanimals as they have fallen, locked together in death after the combat isover. In the former group, the panther, in springing upon the deer, hadimpaled its neck on the deer's right antler, and had then swung roundunder the latter's body, burying the claws of its right fore foot in theruminant's throat. In order truthfully to represent the second stage ofthe encounter, therefore, it was necessary not merely to model a secondgroup, but to retain the elements and construction of the first groupunder totally changed conditions. This is a feat of such peculiardifficulty that I think few artists in any branch of art would venture toattempt it; nevertheless, Mr. Kemeys has accomplished it; and the more thetwo groups are studied in connection with each other, the more completewill his success be found to have been. The man who can do this may surelybe admitted a master, whose works are open only to affirmative criticism.For his works the most trying of all tests is their comparison with oneanother; and the result of such comparison is not merely to confirm theirmerit, but to illustrate and enhance it.

For my own part, my introduction to Mr. Kemeys's studio was the opening tome of a new world, where it has been my good fortune to spend many days ofdelightful and enlightening study. How far the subject of this writing mayhave been already familiar to the readers of it, I have no means ofknowing; but I conceive it to be no less than my duty, as a countryman ofMr. Kemeys's and a lover of all that is true and original in art, to paythe tribute of my appreciation to what he has done. There is no danger ofhis getting more recognition than he deserves, and he is not one whomrecognition can injure. He reverences his art too highly to magnify hisown exposition of it; and when he reads what I have set down here, he willsmile and shake his head, and mutter that I have divined the perfect ideain the imperfect embodiment. Unless I greatly err, however, no one buthimself is competent to take that exception. The genuine artist is neversatisfied with his work; he perceives where it falls short of hisconception. But to others it will not be incomplete; for the achievementsof real art are always invested with an atmosphere and aroma--a spiritualquality perhaps--proceeding from the artist's mind and affecting that ofthe beholder. And thus it happens that the story or the poem, the pictureor the sculpture, receives even in its material form that last indefinablegrace, that magic light that never was on sea or land, which no pen orbrush or graving-tool has skill to seize. Matter can never rise to theheight of spirit; but spirit informs it when it has done its best, andennobles it with the charm that the artist sought and the world desired.

*** Since the above was written, Mr. Kemeys has removed his studio toPerth Amboy, N. J.